by December 14, 2013 0 comments

magic seems
as a description
for a thing
i can still taste and
orbiting my soul
runaway seraphim
devil dogs
sparrows and eagles
and gypsies
and such
we saw
a music stand
bow it’s stoic head
and jazz-soaked trumpets
blush from silver to red
as an opal translated
the last lost language
of god
and a man
the walls of jericho
money and road-trips
chapbooks and rubies
and sackcloth
and trust
like the beauty
in an alabama hug
and in the night
and the word
by no one
who wasn’t there and then
by no one who will ever
believe us anyway

editors note:

The children of god bebopped ’round Canaan, jazz warriors, all? Nope, I don’t believe it either. – mh

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